


Making The Same Mistakes

by Darelz



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, At least no comfort yet - maybe if you ask nicely I'll write a sequel chapter, Discotober, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Jeanst, M/M, POV Third Person, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darelz/pseuds/Darelz
Summary: In which a regular visitor shows up on Jean's doorstep.CW: Alcohol addiction.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Making The Same Mistakes

Some things can be relied upon to happen like clockwork. Precinct 41’s kitchen will surely be out of coffee when it’s needed most. If a case is closed, two more will be on one’s desk by the end of the day. And just when it gets late enough that Jean Vicquemare dares to think this Friday night might be the one he finally gets to spend alone, his usual guest will show up.

There’s a jumbled series of knocks at Jean’s door. Even if Harry hadn’t made a racket stumbling his way up to Jean’s apartment, Jean would know who was there. Despite being well aware of how futile it is, Jean waits in the hope Harry might just leave. The banging becomes incessant; Jean drags himself away from the embrace of the sofa, before any of his neighbours come out to make *another* complaint. If it weren’t for Harry’s habit of pawning any object entrusted to him, Jean would give Harry a key so that he didn’t have to bother getting up every damn time. As it stands, Jean’s stuck letting the drunk bastard in again.

Expectedly, the scent of sour pilsners unfurls into the apartment when Jean opens the door.

“I-”

“Save it shitkid. You can recite tonight’s bullshit once we're sat down.”

There’s a flash of remorse in Harry’s eyes, before it’s drowned by the alcohol. On his way inside Harry trips, latching onto Jean for balance. This is hardly the first time Harry’s drunkenly leant against Jean, yet it still sends a jolt of need through him.

No, not need, *want*. Jean wants to be something more to Harry, but it can never happen.

Repressing thoughts of how it feels to have Harry clutching onto him, Jean manages to guide Harry over to the sofa. Jean settles himself at the opposite end, but of course the bastard shuffles to sit closer to Jean.

“Jean. JV. Viccie. Vic-meister-”

“Keep going with the nicknames. I’m sure if you come up with enough of them I’ll forgive you for showing up to my apartment pissed as The Antistar again.”

Regret immediately tears through Jean’s gut when Harry makes eyes like a kicked puppy. It’s not like using ridiculous nicknames is the most annoying thing Harry does - it’s not entirely annoying, even. In the privacy of his own mind, Jean may go so far as to admit it’s *endearing*.

“I’m not drunk tonight - okay, secretly I’m a *liiittle* drunk. Not as drunk as usual though!"

It's true: while Harry is definitely drunk, this is a level of coherence Jean’s not usually blessed with. Perhaps his toilet will even be spared from the usual vomiting tonight.

“Congratulations on only being a *little* shit-faced tonight. What’s the occasion?”

"Had a breakthrough on one of the thought projects! I wasn’ gonna drink at all ‘cause of it, but thinking ‘bout it made me think of *her*, and-”

Jean notes the time - two minutes, and the waterworks are already about to begin. Not even total sobriety could keep those at bay.

“-and I thought about how bad I fucked things up with, with her, and with everything after, fuck-up after fuck-up, ‘cause *I’m* a fuck-up...”

The rambling is cut off by a sob, tears welling up in Harry’s eyes. Part of Jean’s tempted to brush the tears away, and reassure Harry that he’s the most precious fuck-up Jean’s ever met; instead Jean hands Harry a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Dora, huh? Think you’ve mentioned her before. Surely she can't be so bangable that she's worth crying over years later."

Of course Jean knows who Dora is - it’s obvious he’s only pretending not to. Harry seems to think this is something Jean does for his sake, that Jean’s offering Harry the illusion he doesn’t spend countless hours bawling about Dora. The truth isn't so kind: Jean loathes Dora for continuing to steal Harry's attention years after they've broken up, and doesn’t trust himself to speak of her without making his feelings apparent. Logically Jean knows it’s not Dora’s fault Harry’s still hung up over her, but green eyes have never seen logic.

"This isn' about Dora… okay, it sooort of is, but not really. I don' blame her for leaving. There’s the real problem - I can’ blame her for leaving ‘cause I’m unlovable.”

The irony that Harry’s confiding this in someone who’s hopelessly in love with him isn’t lost upon Jean.

"Can't pretend it's easy for miserable old fucks like us. But there’s got to be some chick out there who sees something worth sticking around for under all the…"

Jean gestures vaguely at Harry. This isn’t the time to discuss what Harry’s problems are.

“...I’ve stuck around long enough, haven’t I?”

Harry perks up, tears already drying on his cheeks.

"Exactly, miserable old men like *us*! You get it - how d’you manage it, Jean?"

Whatever leap in logic Harry's made, Jean’s not following.

"How do I manage what?"

"Dating. Not that you're as tragic as me, but it’s gotta be difficult with work and the…"

The sly bastard mirrors the gesture Jean just made; Jean can’t help grinning a little at that.

"I don't. Between cases and chasing after you, I don’t have the time.”

It’s not a lie, but not the whole truth either. There’s also the unrequited crush, and Jean doubts he could find anyone who’d put up with how miserable he is. Romantically hopeless in three distinct categories, so Jean can be extra certain he’ll remain forever alone.

“You haven’t even tried dating another detective? They’d get the long hours, and the emotional stuff - y’know, stuff like why you can’t get it up after you just saw spilled guts."

Jean wishes he didn’t know that Harry was referring to a specific problem he’d experienced with *her*, but he does. There’s a pause as Jean considers how much of the truth to share.

"Thought about it."

A light flicks on in Harry's eyes - which Jean knows to be a sign of either a genius revelation or a uniquely idiotic scheme. Or both.

"So in theory, you’d date another detective?"

"In theory, yeah. You got your eyes on another officer or something?"

Jean needs to know who to stare daggers at.

"Well… what if we dated each other?"

What. If. We. Dated. Each. Other? The question loops in Jean's head, a pale echo of a dead ghost in the machine. Those words have meaning, Jean knows they do, yet he may as well have heard white noise for all he understood of them. The fool in him has suggestions, but not convincing enough to spur Jean to do anything besides sit there, dumbfounded. As it becomes clear Jean isn't going to - or can't - reply anytime soon, Harry elaborates.

"Hear me out, it makes sense! We’re both sad and single, so we can- we’ll probably still be sad, but we can be sad *together*. I've slept at your house enough times that we already kinda know what it would be like to live together, and-"

The fool is torn apart by shards of a shattering illusion. Harry doesn’t want Jean: he’s simply a lonely man desperate for a connection with anyone who’d offer it. By now Jean should know better than to hope, yet still he feels the burn of rising bile and yearning in his chest. Jean swallows it down the same way he usually does: anger.

"You can't date someone just because it makes sense! You have to actually- you’re not even attracted to men!"

Generalising Harry’s lack of attraction to all men rather than just Jean himself somewhat softens the pain.

"That’s what I’ve been thinking about! Didn' think I was allowed to be into to men 'cause I'm into to women, but then Trant told me people can be into in as many genders as they wanna be."

Not for the first time, Jean curses the interference of Trant *fucking* Heidelstam. Jean will be forever grateful for Trant’s contributions to the unit, and Trant’s soft-hearted presence is a blessing among all the machismo posturing - but he gets along with Harry far better than any sane man should. Trant gives Harry *ideas*, which inevitably cause Jean headaches.

“What, you’re going to tell me you’re bisexual now?”

"Yeah, I'm a bicycle now!"

There goes one of the few solaces Jean has - *had*. Acutely aware of how exhausted he is, Jean runs a hand down his face; how does he explain all the reasons he can’t date Harry? That Harry’s a barely functioning alcoholic, that he’s still hung up over Dora, that in spite of everything Harry’s still more than Jean deserves?

“Okay, that still doesn’t mean… we can't…"

“So you don’ wanna date me?”

Jean knows how he should reply. For all Harry's flaws, Jean trusts Harry will drop the subject if Jean just says the word; Jean even opens his mouth to do so. But there must be an entroponetic cavity within Jean's mouth, because the word simply vanishes from existence. It's not only that Jean can't say it - the concept has been erased from his memory, replaced with thoughts of how close Harry is… wait, when did that hand get there? There hadn't been a hand on Jean's thigh before, but there Harry's hand is. It's hot and clammy and not at all inviting - except somehow it is. Jean makes the mistake of looking at Harry, who's near enough now that Jean can smell the booze on his breath.

Jean abruptly stands up.

"You're far too drunk for this, and I'm too sober."

Harry's *always* too drunk for this; Jean has to put a stop to the fool’s hesitations, because there are no signs of that changing any time soon.

"So we can continue once I'm sober?"

Those puppy dog eyes won't do anything now.

Except make the longing all the more unbearable. 

"We can *talk* about it once you're sober. Not tonight - no more talking tonight. I’m getting the sheets so I can get some fucking shut eye already."

Any protests are ignored as Jean fetches the bedding from its usual spot atop a pile of laundry, freshly prepared for Harry’s visit. When Jean returns, Harry doesn’t bring the proposition up again - or anything, for that matter. For all Jean begs Harry to give him even a moment’s peace, he loathes when Harry contemplates in silence like this: at least when Jean’s dealing with the trite that Harry spews, he isn’t left alone with his own merciless thoughts. It’s only after Jean’s finished setting up the bedding and about to leave for his own bed that he’s freed from his ruminations. 

“...Jean?”

“Yeah?”

Harry hesitates - he looks vulnerable, bleary eyed and wrapped up in blankets on Jean’s sofa. On another night, Jean would’ve made excuses to linger until Harry wheedled Jean into giving him a goodnight hug. Jean’s not making that mistake tonight.  
  
“Uh… just wanted to say g’night.”

“Night, shitkid.”

A click of the door, and they’re separated. Jean’s alone in his bedroom, where he can make empty promises to himself about he won’t be letting Harry in next week.

Tonight will be another sleepless night.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a second chapter planned, but life is busy so I didn't get it finished within the week. Personally I enjoy sad endings so I'd be cool leaving this as it is, but if anyone does want that sequel chapter I can write. Update: Working on a sequel chapter, although it will be later than originally planned.
> 
> Additional fun fact: This was based off a draft I'd abandoned several months ago. So who knows, maybe the other abandoned drafts I have lying around will eventually see the light of day.


End file.
